Waves
by Ryah Ignis
Summary: "For all the people that wax poetic about the beauty of humanity, it's a ball and chain that Cas just can't shake." A study in humanity, through the eyes of a fallen angel. End!verse.


Waves

Humanity's a tricky thing. There's no guide, no manual, no orders. It's the most free that he's ever been, and if Cas is being honest, it's utterly terrifying. He can't understand what the fuss was about free will, because all that ever did was land him here.

Before they left Bobby's house for Camp Chitaqua, Cas had found himself with a dictionary in his hand, doing the only thing he knew to do—research. His shoulders had ached with the phantom weight of his wings, and Jimmy Novak's soul had fled, hopefully to a better place.

_Humanity—noun (hu-man-i-ti)_

_1. All human beings collectively; the human race; mankind_

_2. The quality or condition of being human, human nature_

_3. The quality of being humane; kindness; benevolence _

Now, knowing the definition doesn't help matters much. Humanity is a thing that defies explanation, something that needs to be felt to be understood.

Cas bitterly wishes he didn't understand.

No matter how many times he bleeds, no matter how many times he feels his muscles strain, no matter how many times he's swamped with pesky emotions that prompt tears, he'll never be like them. Because Cas is human in that he breaks like a toothpick, in that he will age and wither and die, but he's not _human_. He doesn't have the memories that they all hold in common, memories of family dinners and birthday parties, of earth-shattering loss and love born of friendship, not loyalty. He doesn't understand the jokes that fly between them, he doesn't understand the companionship they all fall into easily. He's an angel stuffed in human skin, and it's just wrong.

For all the people that wax poetic of the beauty of it, it's a ball and chain that he just can't shake.

In a way, though, he can see the world more clearly now, for better or for worse. It's the little things that catch his attention. Risa, despite her wise-cracking, sarcastic, tough exterior, is a romantic at heart. Yaegar used to have a wife and kids, and sometimes Cas can see them reflected in his eyes. Chuck hasn't picked up a pen in years, but his hand seems perpetually stained with ink, as if his destiny, which Cas used to see so clearly, is calling him still.

Even after three years, it's Dean he knows best. Whose soul he had saved. Who had tried to save him in return. Who had taught Cas what he could about humanity when they had no other choice. Who had fallen into jigsaw puzzle pieces that Cas can't put back together no matter how long or hard he tries because he doesn't know what the complete picture is supposed to look like anymore.

Cas can't remember the last time he saw the hunter happy. Sure, he smiles when they've made another step in finding the Colt or when they find a large pack of supplies, but they're never really smiles. They're hollow, empty, and the worst bit is, no one notices. They think this is the way that he's always been, and even if they did, they wouldn't do anything about it. Those people need a leader that seems indestructible. Dean needs people to see him a martyr. The arrangement works, even if it's slowly killing him, and the only one who can see it is Cas.

He's got to feel the whole spectrum of emotions since falling.

Anger when he realized that the others had fled to the great beyond of the universe rather than face their defeat. The angels brought to their knees, all because one little human said no. Cas isn't very familiar with the concept of irony, but he thinks sometimes that it's ironic.

Bitterness when he tried to spread his wings and couldn't, the hours spent sitting alone and trying to catch just a snatch of the power he'd given up to protect him.

Despair that came with the words 'the devil's in Detroit' and the description of the face that he was wearing.

Pain, lashing through his foot, even as Dean helped him stagger to the car, cursing his own fragility all the way.

Fear, when he realized that Dean didn't intend to return from their final mission.

He's never gotten to feel much in the way of happiness, but he's an honorary Winchester now, and that isn't in the job description

All of these musings fade away with the fog in his head as he wakes. By all rights, he should be dead, but he and the universe have an unsteady relationship with _should be_. Cas is where he'd fallen, angel blade in his red, sticky hand, sprawled across the floor of the house of the devil himself. It's then that Cas remembers that he's supposed to call it a base, because that's what Dean wants to think it is, but he knows that bases belong in warfare, and this isn't a war.

Beside him, Risa isn't breathing. Cas calms his own, pushing aside the hundreds of pesky emotions as he drags himself to his feet, feeling every pound of what had been, once upon a time, Jimmy Novak's body.

The patrol is dead. By some cruel trick of Fate, he is not. Cas isn't sure if he believes in Fate, or destiny anymore, but he needs to blame something. If it hadn't been for one thing, Cas would have laid down and died. But there is one more thing. Dean came in through another door. And even if he does die of the wound in his abdomen that failed to claim him when it should have, he'll see Dean one more time.

And that's enough.

He wanders through hallways that bear the marks of their desperate fight, down a staircase ripped to shreds by bullets. Cas remembers a day that he could have sauntered through the fighting without a scratch, but those days are long gone and instead he'd been forced to struggle like the rest. He doesn't know where he's going, but he somehow knows the right way. Cas emerges into a garden that he once would have found beautiful. Now it just seems wrong, and it takes him a moment to realize why.

He doesn't make a sound. In fact, Cas doesn't give a single external sign of the storm going on in his head.

If Cas's humanity is the ocean and he's the beach, it's been tearing away at him for three years. Ebbing and flowing, but always taking a bit of him with it. Now, the emotions are coming to a head at the crest of a wave, and it's bearing down on him. He lacks the strength and the will to get out of the way.

Long ago, when he had wings, he'd cried so loudly 'Dean Winchester is saved!' that he'd reminded Anna Milton of her origins. If he'd still had his Grace, he would have screamed so loudly that every angel, gone from Earth or not, would have had to stop and listen. Instead, he sinks to his knees and pulls the man he'd saved—the man who'd saved him—into his arms.

When the blade enters his back, he doesn't feel a thing.

Good.


End file.
